


The Games We All Play

by the69thtolastdragonlord (supurbangothic)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Chaptered, Eventual Relationships, Fluff, Other, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:18:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2697659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supurbangothic/pseuds/the69thtolastdragonlord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Oliver saw the four of them, they were all soaking wet and irritable. They stumbled, quite by accident, into his camp; and their looks of confusion were enough to make Oliver fall onto his backside from laughter before they had even been properly introduced.<br/>CURRENTLY UNDERGOING A MAJOR RE-WRITE</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Leon is No Fun (and Not so Good at Keeping His Mouth Shut)

The first time Oliver saw the four of them, they were all soaking wet and irritable. They stumbled, quite by accident, into his camp; and their looks of confusion were enough to make Oliver fall onto his backside from laughter before they had even been properly introduced. The knights eyes darted from Oliver, to the cozy flame next to him, to the stormy sky, and back to Oliver.

  
“He's a sorcerer!” the curly-haired blonde barked, and Oliver stopped laughing to roll his eyes. As they drew their swords, and began to glare at him, he stood and smirked.

  
“Oh calm down, the lot of you. Do you at least intend to ask my name before you skewer me for trying to stay warm? He called across the clearing, spreading his arms out to his sides. “I mean, I'd expect you to be proper gentlemen, seeing as you're King Arthur's personal guard and all.” At this, the four of them reeled backwards, and the blonde from before snapped, “How do you know that?”

  
“Oh please,” Oliver laughed. “there isn't a citizen of Camelot who hasn't heard the stories. Sir Percival,”his eyes shifted to the knight in question. “the gentle giant. Sir Gwaine, the...adventurous.” Oliver sent a wink Gwaine's way. “Sir Lancelot, the noble.” Not quite a wink this time, but a not-so-innocent smirk. “And Sir Leon, the loyal.” A mock bow was aimed at Leon, as though to aggravate him.

  
"All of them incredibly good-looking, which I must say is no stretch of the truth.” Oliver ran his tongue across his bottom lip for good measure, and all of them (with the exception of Gwaine) blushed.

  
Since you know who we are, why don't you tell us your name?” Lancelot called, cheeks still aflame.

  
“My name's Oliver, and I am _not_ a sorcerer.” Oliver said with a pointed look at Leon. “I'm a warlock.” The knights looked perplexed, and he sighed. “I was born with my powers. I've never studied, and I can't help being what I am any more than you can help being who you are.” He saw Lancelot perk up for a moment, which confused him. But the expression quickly faded from the knight's face, so he brushed it off as his imagination. “As far as I know, I'm the only one. Although I've heard rumors of another by the name of Emrys.”

  
“Well, I don't know if your story is true or not, but you are breaking the law by using magic within Camelot's borders. So we will have to take you back to the city with us, for an audience with the king.” Leon said, advancing slowly towards Oliver. The younger man snorted.

  
“If you want to arrest me, you'll have to catch me first.” he chuckled, before his eyes went gold and he vanished into the air, a trace of his laugh still hanging in the clearing.

-Page Break-

  
The next time they all met face to face was a few days later, when Oliver showed up in their camp on a whim. He wandered in, and seeing as they were all directing their attention away from him, made his way over to he fire in the center of the camp. He sat down and clicked his tongue, observing how the embers were growing dimmer as the amount of dry wood dwindled. His eyes flashed golden, and the flame leaped up with a pop, causing the four knights to spin around and face him.

  
“What are you doing here?” Leon said, hastily pulling his sword free of it's sheath.

  
“Oh, nothing really. Just thought I'd pop in. You know, there's a lot of trees around here, and they all look the same. You should be flattered that I took the trouble to find you all. I mean, I followed you, but if I had taken any trouble. It's really the thought that coun-”

  
“Please! Just....be quiet.” Leon snapped, cutting Oliver off. Gwaine tried to smother a snicker with his hand.

  
“Leon, you aren't very fun.” Oliver said, standing up. “We could have a lot of fun together, you know. But unfortunately, you would have me put to death.”

  
“Because magic is _evil_.” Leon retorted, glaring at the warlock. Oliver's expression suddenly darkened slightly, and his eyes cast downward before flicking up to stare at Leon across the clearing.

  
“I'm not evil, Leon. I didn't ask to be this way. Do you honestly believe that I would chose this life? Never being able to stay in one place for too long? Not being able to keep friends? Always fearing for my life because if the wrong person catches me I'm as good as dead, and never being able to escape from it because Camelot's the only place I've ever known?” he asked, quiet and raw. The knights, Leon included, look stricken with shock. As if such things had never occurred to them. The thought made Oliver livid. He was human, just like them. He felt sorrow, and anger, and joy. And yet, they had all been taught, all their lives, that magic was an evil thing. That it was something corrupt, to be feared. He scoffed, breaking eye contact. “Of course, you wouldn't know what that's like, would you?”

  
He let his magic wash over him and his eyes flash gold, before disappearing like he had the day before. And like the day before, the four knights in the clearing didn't see him reappear just outside the treeline. Or notice that he stayed there into the night, watching over them, his eyes two golden pinpricks in the dark.


	2. In Which Oliver is a Badass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of badassery commences.

Oliver couldn't lie to himself-well, he _could,_ and he had before, but that was beside the point-he was fairly cross with Leon, for not seeing that magic could be something other than evil. Of course, it couldn't be helped, and it wasn't exactly Leon's fault. He was a nobleman of Camelot, and had been raised, knighted, and had served under Uther Pendragon's rule. He had been trained to hunt down and destroy magic vigilantly, and Oliver couldn't blame him for being good at his job. But the warlock wished that Leon wouldn't be so _uptight_ about it. The other three knights only seemed to care so much because Leon cared, and although Oliver had heard stories of the round table and all men being equal, he was fairly certain that Leon was their unofficial leader. Besides the King. But the King was their official leader, so the thought still stood.

And so, Oliver made it his directive to get Leon to admit that Oliver-and magic-weren't evil.

Easier said than done, and as Oliver tracked the company of knights through the woods, he could hear Leon speaking to Lancelot about how he hoped Oliver wasn't following them. This caused Oliver to snort with laughter and annoyance, almost revealing himself to the group. He sighed, and his eyes turned gold as he fixed their horses with a tracking spell. That way, he could eliminate the chance of getting caught, and catch up to them later. He climbed up a nearby tree and closed his eyes, dozing off to the sound of leaves rustling in the wind.

-Page Break-

When he woke up, it was to the faint sound of shouting and clanging metal, and he almost fell out of the tree in his scramble to get down and see what was going on. When he reached the ground, he was panting, but he forced himself to run towards the sound of a skirmish. As the harsh clanging rang louder in his ears, Oliver could feel his magic reacting. It surrounded him like armor, covering every inch of his body and giving his skin a faint golden glow. It strengthened his muscles and replaced his fatigue with a feeling of power. He ran the last few meters and emerged into a denser part of the forest, where he could see Leon, Lancelot, Percival, and Gwaine locked in battle with....

“Slave traders.” Oliver breathed, and the healed scars on his stomach and face tingled with the memory of pain. His magic fluctuated around him, seeping into the ground and trees. It built with his rage, turning the very air a barely noticeable gold. He spread his hands out in front of him, channeling his magic towards the fighting men. It surged forward like a wave, crashing over the group just as hard. The men, knights and slavers alike, reeled with the force of it, effectively separating the two groups. They glanced around wildly, and all eyes finally landed on Oliver. He was off to the side, looking powerful and imposing, with his arms outstretched. One of his hands, the hand directed at the slavers, clenched, and they froze in place as if they were being held there. The knights stumbled backwards, looking almost afraid. Oliver took a few long, purposeful strides forward, coming to stand in front of the frozen slave traders.

“Hard to move, is it? Must be even harder to breath.” he said, his voice low. That was when the knights realized that not only was Oliver holding them in place, he was suffocating them as well. Their eyes widened as they stared at the young man that was so cheery the previous times they had met him, and now seemed to thrum with power.

“You're all the same. Ruthless, with no sense of honor or remorse. You're barely even human. You're rats, and you'll die like rats.” Oliver's hand clenched impossibly tighter, and the paralyzed men made a collective, pitiful sound. Then, they drooped like dolls and finally fell to the ground.

“There, less vermin in the world.” Oliver said, turning around just in time for an arrow to pierce his side. He let out a shocked breath and collapsed to his knees, looking through the trees to see a slaver archer staring back at him with wide, fearful eyes. Oliver stretched out his hand one last time, and the very earth opened to swallow the archer whole. The warlock let his arm drop back to his side, and cast a long glance at the knights, before collapsing onto the ground, blood pooling at his side.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Badass Oliver is so much fun to write! Also cliffhanger because I'm mean.


	3. In Which There are STANDARDS, Goddammit!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver is not satisfied with this situation.

When Oliver woke up, everything was dark. A pitch black darker than any night he had ever seen. He couldn't even see the faint shadows of trees and dead leaves that usually littered the ground. But the thing that threw him off was this: he could hear bird song. It was all around him, far above his head in what he assumed to be the treetops, and just a few meters away. Birds, in Oliver's rather extensive experience, were never that active at night.

There was something rough pressed against his back, and as he moved to push himself off the ground, he realized that his hands were tied. He twitched his nose, and felt rough fabric slide against it. Well, shit.

He was tied to a tree, blindfolded, and he had no idea who had put him there. Well, he had one idea, but it annoyed him to think about it. And even though he knew that he was probably safe, there was thinly veiled panic under the annoyance. The last time he had been tied up like this...no. He didn't want to think about it. He was safe. Blindfolded, but safe.

“I swear whichever one of you tied me up, you're getting no favors from me!” he called out experimentally, not really expecting an answer. He honestly wouldn't have been surprised if they had simply tied him up and left him there. Which wouldn't really have been a problem. He could escape his bounds fairly quickly if the need arose. But since he most likely knew who had captured him, and he was trying to convince them that he wasn't just some renegade sorcerer, escaping with a snap of his fingers-or a flash of his eyes-didn't seem like the best course of action.

But to his surprise, he did receive an answer.

“So is suffocating people to death with your magic what you would call a favor?” Leon's voice was hard and harsh, and Oliver had to struggle to keep himself from wincing. Instead, he squared his shoulders as best he could with a tree trunk digging into his back.

“They were slavers, and they were going to kill you. Or better yet, capture you and sell you. Trust me, knights, especially young and good-looking ones such as yourselves, would fetch a high price. And if for some reason they couldn't sell you...” he attempted not to shiver. “bad things would happen. Trust me Leon, that was one of the best favors you've ever received.”

“You seem to know a lot about slavers.” Whose voice was that? Gwaine's?

“Not really. Just as much as anyone else who doesn't have the privilege of living in the Grand City.” the last part of Oliver's sentence came out in a bit of a grumble, but he couldn't help it. He had never met a nobleman before Leon (and Leon didn't exactly count), and the thought of soft men getting fat with the toils of poor farmers, completely unaware of the struggles going on in the world made him sick. He had only just briefly been alive during Uther's rein, but the mad king's persecution of sorcerers had still impacted him greatly. If he hadn't been born with magic-no. He shied away from that train of thought and locked it away. He was not ready to go down that road, and it was not the time nor place.

“All the same, you still murdered those men. You're dangerous. We're taking you back to the city, and we aren't untying you until we get there.” Leon said, and Oliver let out a soft _ugh_ noise.

“I stand by my original observation that you, Leon, are no fun at all.” He expected a small snicker from Gwaine, but when none came, his heart dropped a bit. Had he really messed up that badly? Surely they realized that slavers were a bigger problem than he was? And he saved their lives! No, he decided stubbornly, he was not the one who was wrong. They were wrong. All of Camelot was wrong. And for the first time in a long time, he found himself missing his family. His clan. Gone now, moved on or dead. And yet they were the reason he lingered in this forest, trying to catch a glimpse of them through the trees one day. But it had been eleven years since he had seen them, and he now knew it was hopeless. Clans almost never moved through the same forest twice, and those who were lost were never searched for.

_M..._ he thought of his old friend with the easy smile and large, curious eyes and sighed. Slumping down, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep as old memories danced through his head and salty tears soaked into the fabric across his eyes.

-Page Break-

When he awoke, it was to a light tapping on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and panicked for a moment when he realized that all he could see was darkness, but then remembered what had transpired before he had drifted to sleep.

“Yes?” he asked, and the tapping abruptly stopped.

“I brought you some food...” the voice was obviously Percival's. He had an accent that none of the rest did, the telltale sign of someone born in the kingdom that had once belonged to Cenred.

“Oh, thank you. But how will I eat?” Oliver strained on his binds to demonstrate that he was in no condition to use his arms. His goal was to get Percival to undo his hands, just for a while, but no such luck.

“Open your mouth.”

Oliver did as the knight said and almost choked when a spoonful of stew was pushed into his mouth. Oh _no._ He was _not_ being spoon-fed like an _infant._ He shook his head violently even as he chewed, but Percival just sighed.

“I know it's not the way you want this to happen, but you have to eat, and I can't undo your hands. Open.”

Oliver shook his head again and pressed his mouth into a hard line. There was no way he would let this happen. He wasn't the most dignified person, but there were _standards._

“Tell you what. You let me do this and I'll loosen the binds.” Percival coaxed, and Oliver let out an exasperated sigh. He didn't want them loosened, he wanted them _off._ But opening his mouth to sigh proved to be a mistake when he felt another spoonful of stew push it's way past his lips. He spluttered for a moment, but then grumbled and chewed, admitting that, yes, he was hungry. And that, no, the stew wasn't that bad. And even though he could escape in a matter of seconds if he wanted to, it was definitely not the best thing to do if he wanted to convince them that he wasn't evil. So, with no little amount of complaining, he slowly opened his mouth. Percival made an approving noise and fed him another spoonful, and Oliver missed the small smile that played at his lips.

 


	4. In Which Clover is an Important Plot Device

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of the binds come off.

After awaking the next morning and once again having a short moment of panic, Oliver decided to request that the blindfold be taken off of him. Not that he couldn't do it himself, but he figured it was just better to ask. So, he called out.

“Hello?” It wasn't as loud as he could have shouted, but as he had no way of knowing how close the knights were to him, he decided it was best to err on the safe side. He sighed with relief when he did receive an answer.

“What?” The voice belonged to Gwaine, and although it was short, it wasn't exactly unfriendly. Oliver heard footsteps approaching him, and decided to memorize how Gwaine's footsteps sounded different from Percival's. Percival's strides were slow and heavy, full of deliberation. Gwaine's steps sounded very different. They were light, almost a ghosting touch on the forest floor. And although there was frost and dried leaves littering the ground, they didn't rustle. Gwaine walked like he was trying to hide, to mix into the sounds around him. His were the footsteps of someone who had once led a life that was not as clean as they would have liked. Oliver could relate to that.

“Could you _please_ take this blindfold off? Having it scratch at my face is terrible for my skin. I'm sure you can relate.” He tried to make his voice sound light and unconcerned, and even threw in a smirk. Of course, he was lying, but Gwaine didn't need to know that. And besides, Oliver _really_ didn't feel like telling his tragic backstory to a near stranger who had him bound to a tree. Especially the part that explained _why_ being bound to a tree, blindfolded, bothered him so much.

“You can't just take it off with magic?” Gwaine asked, almost tauntingly, and Oliver was a bit surprised that Gwaine had figured that out. Of course, Gwaine wasn't stupid by any means, but Oliver had thought the fact that he _hadn't_ taken it off would immediately have been correlated with the assumption that he _couldn't_ take it off. Of course, the four of them were knights of Camelot, and thus extremely wary of magic in any forms. They could had just surmised that he was plotting a surprise attack. Oliver almost snickered at the thought. He would have to have been stupid to launch an ambush on four armed, seasoned knights. Especially ones who had been specifically trained against magic.

He was brought out of his thoughts by Gwaine clearing his throat.

“Oh, sorry. Yes, I could take it off with magic if I wanted to.” Oliver said pleasantly, deciding that it would do no good to lie to him.

“Then why don't you?” Gwaine actually sounded genuinely perplexed, which Oliver found amusing.

“Because I don't want to.” he said simply. Gwaine made a small _humph_ noise at that.

“Well why not?” the knight asked, a sulking tone creeping into his voice. Oliver didn't think it was a good idea to launch into the whole “I'm trying to gain your trust and show you that I'm not evil” tirade, so he answered with a simple, “Because you don't want me to.”

Oliver wasn't sure, but he thought he heard Gwaine intake a breath of surprise. There was a sudden tickle of the warlock's hair being pushed out of the way, and the cloth over his eyes loosed and then was gone altogether.

He closed his eyes against the harsh light of the sun, but when he had finally worked up the courage to crack one eye open, he realized that it was only a while past dawn. Added to the fact that Gwaine's shadow was preventing any light to reach him directly, he suddenly felt very foolish. He stared at the ground and tried to acclimate, blinking rapidly for a few moments and then tilting his head slightly upward. He repeated this movement a few times until he could move his head in all directions-besides directly upward-unhindered. Gwaine just watched him wordlessly, not moving from where he was crouched opposite Oliver. The warlock looked into Gwaine's brown eyes and grinned.

“Thank you for that. Please tell me that the skin around my eyes doesn't look _too_ horrible?” he asked, but Gwaine just continued to stare at him. Oliver tried to avoid shifting awkwardly and after a moment's pause, added, “That bad, huh?”

Gwaine seemed to snap back into himself and let out a breathy chuckle.

“No,” he said, “not bad at all. Just a little red.” He touched two fingers to the skin under Oliver's eye, and Oliver winced.

“It may not look bad, but it does burn a bit. Do you have any clover with you, by chance?” the warlock asked, but the only thing he received from Gwaine was a rather comical confused look. “I'll take that as a no, then. Well, if you can, find some. Mash them up in a bit of water, then bring them to me.”

“Where do you get off on giving orders?” Gwaine asked, scowling. Actually, Oliver thought it was more of a pout.

“Well you aren't really _doing_ anything, are you? Where are the other three, anyways?” he asked.

“They're cleaning up the mess _you_ made of the slaver's bodies. Shouldn't be back for a while.” Gwaine said, his tone more playful than accusing. “And while they're gone, I'm supposed to be watching you. Can't exactly do that if I'm frolicking in the woods looking for clover, now can I? Besides, Leon's already going to have my head off for unbinding your eyes in the first place.”

“Clover is not _that_ hard to find, Gwaine. And besides, I can help you.” Oliver said, rolling his eyes.

“How could you help....oh, no. No. I am _not_ letting you use magic. Do you think I'm stupid? If I let you use magic, you'll be halfway to Lot's kingdom by the time the others come back!” Gwaine said, his eyes narrowing into a glare.

“I wasn't talking about magic. Look, there's a huge bunch of clover just over there. If you were better at looking around instead of twittering on about the 'evils' of magic, you would have seen them too.” Oliver said, cross. He had been talking about magic, but the amount that it would use to search the small area around them was so miniscule that Gwaine would hardly notice. Did the knights really not trust him at all? He glared at Gwaine with stubbornness, and jerked his head towards the patch of clover he was talking about.

Gwaine's eyes followed Oliver's gaze, and came to a rest on the pale green of clover leaves. “Oh.” he said weakly, feeling a mite guilty about jumping to conclusions. Oliver wasn't all that bad of a person, that Gwaine could tell. In fact, the only thing that held Gwaine and the others against the boy was that he was a sorcerer. Or warlock. Or whatever. And even then, Oliver hadn't used his magic for any sort of evil purpose, per say. They were going to kill the slavers anyways, Oliver just used a little more flare.

“Fine. I'll get you your clover.” the knight said, standing up. Making sure to keep one eye on Oliver, he walked over to the patch and pulled up as much of the weed that he could. Oliver watched, his eyes still narrowed.

“That's enough. Now mash them up in a bit of water and bring them here.” Gwaine did as the warlock said and was soon kneeling in front of him once more.

“Now what, your highness?” Gwaine mocked. Oliver rolled his eyes and said, “Now I need you to _gently_ smear the paste below my eyes. Gently.”

Gwaine nodded and dipped two fingers into the paste. Then, he reached up towards Oliver's face, and the younger man was actually surprised at how light the touch was. It was if Gwaine was afraid to break him.

“You don't have to be _that_ gentle, you know.” Oliver chuckled.

“Ah. Right.” Gwaine said, and applied a bit more force. The cool salve felt nice on Oliver's hot, red skin, and he let his eyes slip closed. After a while, he could feel himself falling asleep, but couldn't be bothered to stop it.

Gwaine was almost finished putting the clover on Oliver's face when he heard and saw the black-haired boy yawn. He chuckled and began to pull away when Oliver tilted his head and nuzzled against his hand. Gwaine froze with surprise and confusion, and then settled back to cup the side of Oliver's face gently. The knight sat there, unmoving, and wondered what exactly the warlock's story was. Did he have any family? If so, where were they now? And if not, what had happened to them? He almost considered waking Oliver up to ask, but then disregarded the though. The boy looked so peaceful, a calm that Gwaine had never seen on his face before. So he remained there, his hand resting against Oliver's face as the morning sun climbed to touch the tops of the trees.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yeah. Writing Gwaine and Oliver is really fun because they're both sassy little shits with a soft, tragic side.


End file.
